Nicky-Nan, Reservist eBook

Returning to the parlour downstairs, he refilled his
pockets with the gold of which he had lightened himself
for his carpentry, knotted another twenty sovereigns
tightly in his handkerchief, picked up the lighter
of his two spades—­for some months he had
eschewed the heavier—­and took his way through
the streets, up the cliff-track by the warren, and
so past the coastguard watch-house.

The sun had dropped behind the hill, leaving the West
one haze of gold: but southward and seaward this
gold grew fainter and fainter, paling into an afterglow
of the most delicate blue-amber. In the scarce-canny
light, as he rounded the corner of the cliff, he perceived
two small figures standing above the hollow which ran
down funnel-wise containing his patch, and recognised
them.

“Drat them children!” he muttered; but
kept on his way, and, drawing near, demanded to know
what business brought them so far from home at such
an hour.

“I might ask you the same question,” retorted
’Beida. “Funny time,—­
isn’t it?—­to start diggin’ potatoes?
An’ before now I’ve always notice you
use a visgy for the job. Yet you can’t
be plantin—­not at this season—­”

“Well, if you must know, I’m kissin’
goodnight to ’Bert here. They’ve
started him upon coast-watchin’, and he’s
given this beat till ten-thirty, from the watch-house
half-way to the Cove. I shouldn’ wonder
if he broke his neck.”

“No fear,” put in ’Bert, proudly
exhibiting and flashing a cheap electric torch.
“They gave me this at St Martin’s—­and
in less than an hour the moon’ll be up.”

“But the paper says there be so many spies about—­eh,
Mr Nanjivell?”

“Damme,” groaned Nicky-Nan, “I should
think there were! Well, if there’s military
work afoot, at this rate, I’d better clear.
—­Unless ‘Bert would like me to stay
here an’ chat with ’en for company.”

“We ben’t allowed to talk—­not
when on duty,” declared young ’Bert stoutly.

“Then kiss your brother, Missy, an’ we’ll
trundle-ways home.”

CHAPTER XIII.

FIRST AID.

“I hope, Mary-Martha,” said Miss Oliver,
pausing half-way up the hill and panting, “that,
whatever happens, you will take a proper stand.”

“You are short of breath. You should take
more exercise.” Mrs Polsue eyed her severely.
“When an unmarried woman gets to your time
of life, she’s apt to think that everything can
be got over with Fruit Salts and an occasional dose
of Somebody’s Emulsion. Whereas it can’t.
I take a mile walk up the valley and back every day
of my life.”

“I don’t believe you could perspire if
you tried, Mary-Martha.”

“Well, and you needn’t make a merit
of it, . . . and if you ask me,” pursued
Mrs Polsue, “one half of your palpitation is
put on. You’re nervous what show you’ll
make in the drawing-room, and that’s why you’re
dilly-dallyin’ with your questions and stoppages.”